A Hearth in Candlewood by Delia Parr Page B

round of giggles. ‘‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’’ she managed and wiped the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘‘I think I’ve worked myself a mile past pure exhaustion.’’
    From her seat directly across from Mother Garrett, Widow Leonard smiled, reached up, and patted the pomegranate bonnet she wore. ‘‘The color suits me, don’t you think?’’
    Emma cleared her throat and slipped into her seat. ‘‘It’s delightful.’’
    ‘‘We thought you’d like to see us in our new bonnets. That’s why we didn’t take them off. I suppose we should remove them now,’’ she suggested with a frown.
    ‘‘No, please, leave them on,’’ Emma insisted, unfolding her napkin and spreading it on her lap. After lacing her fingers together, she bowed her head and said grace quickly. After adding a prayer of gratitude that Mr. Atkins’ apology had truly been accepted, she glanced at Widow Leonard again. ‘‘You’re right. The color does suit you. The feather on the brim adds just the right touch.’’
    The elderly widow blushed. ‘‘It’s genuine emu, all the way from Australia. Imagine!’’
    Emma buttered a piece of thick, crusty bread, took a bite, and almost purred before she swallowed it and turned her attention to her mother-in-law. She cocked her head and studied the bonnet she wore. ‘‘I’m not sure what color you’re wearing,’’ she prompted. ‘‘If I look at it one way, it looks yellow. If I look at it another, it’s more green than yellow.’’
    Mother Garrett sniffed again. ‘‘It’s called daffodil. The color is all the rage in bonnets, if you need to know, and this particular bonnet is one of a kind.’’
    Emma leaned forward in her seat and poked her head forward to get a closer look. ‘‘Is that a bird’s nest on the bonnet?’’
    Mother Garrett reached up and gently patted the brim. ‘‘It is, though it’s not real. Neither are the flowers sitting in the nest, of course. Forget-me-nots don’t bloom this time of year.’’
    ‘‘I see,’’ Emma managed, sitting back and starting in on her soup. Maybe if she concentrated on eating, she might not giggle again.
    ‘‘You both look rather stunning in your new bonnets, if I may say so,’’ the minister offered. He buttered a piece of bread and nonchalantly dropped it to the floor, where Butter was waiting. ‘‘I look forward to accompanying you both to services on Sunday, where I suspect you shall make a splendid entrance. I hope the ladies in attendance won’t be so distracted they forget why we’re all there,’’ he cautioned.
    ‘‘The ladies on Main Street today were distracted all to pieces as we strolled home with young Mr. Atkins,’’ Widow Leonard noted with a twinkle in her eye.
    Mother Garrett added a pinch of salt to her soup. ‘‘It’s been a good many years since a head turned when either of us walked by, but I’m not foolish enough to think it was just the bonnets we wore. Given the unfortunate misunderstanding at the General Store today, I’d venture it was our being escorted by Mr. Atkins that had heads spinning and tongues wagging.’’
    She narrowed her gaze and pointed the tip of her spoon at Emma. ‘‘I’d wager that new parcel of land I own that it was your idea to buy us both a new bonnet.’’
    Emma coughed, quickly covered her mouth with her napkin, and nodded slightly toward the minister.
    Mother Garrett’s cheeks blushed pink, and she quickly corrected herself. ‘‘Oh . . . I meant only if I wasn’t a churchgoing woman and I was prone to wagering, which I’m not. Definitely not,’’ she insisted. She shook her head so hard in denial that the bird’s nest flew off of her bonnet and landed smack in the center of Reverend Glenn’s bowl.
    Startled, Reverend Glenn stiffened, and the tips of his overlarge ears turned scarlet.
    Mother Garrett gasped.
    Widow Leonard’s mouth dropped open.
    Emma stared at her companions—the nest of forget-me-nots floating in the soup,